Vacuum of God
by slire
Summary: AU: WWII becomes an everlasting war, fracturing the world beyond repair. Whoever's left fights for the scraps. Or: Erik Lehnsherr has been Shaw's pet monster since he was a boy. It takes a half mad telepath and an apocalypse to snap him out of it.
1. introduction — WHITE

**Disclaimer:** X-men © Stan Lee

.

.

**Vacuum of God**

**Introduction: **

**WHITE**

.

.

Naked and clean shaven, the woman wakes by an eerie humming, imprisoned in the womb of a machine.

The veneer of scrap metal and remnants of outmoded tech cuts into her feet and butt. Electrodes are inserted into her scalp, measuring her brain waves, wires connected to the computer chamber. Her knees are drawn to her chest in a replication of a foetus. She dry heaves as memories floods her disorientated mind. Previous events have left her skin eggplant toned. Wobbly like a toddler, she gets up. Voltage grills her marred soles. Her singed nerve endings spasm. The glass is technologically tinted. She looks out because they want her to.

The woman bangs her bruised knuckles against it, lips parted in a horrible grimace, emitting—

Sound.

Vibrations carried through air, effectively blocked by a 45cm layer of glass. Most wars are fought in silence.

The corridor Erik Lehnsherr is walking through is silent and pristine.

Never mind the cells on each side and the captives within. Each is 3x3m. One meter in between. Fed 05:00 and 21:00. One tenth doesn't survive a year. Svalbard's climate prevents mass graves and cremation. Manufacturing an acid pool inside the mountain facility solved the issue of body disposal. At least they're fed thanks to Svalbard's global seed vault, and warm since nuclear winter doesn't affect the guts of the Earth.

(Most of the captives have given up, allowing themselves to be subjected to inhumane treatment and tests, curled against a corner of their separate little bellies. Some pace back and forth, mouth foaming and injuries haemorrhaging and leaking pus. A few newcomers torture themselves with hope.)

Today, they all see him. Dead eyes. Mad eyes. Hopeful, hateful eyes.

This is requested by Shaw to check that Erik's lips are still around his cock, metaphorically speaking. Shaw has become more vicious, overweight and paranoid in his old age. Erik does not allow him the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. There is a practised stillness to his face. He'd learned it early, when Shaw had lined up children and told Erik to choose one or Shaw would shoot them all.

Erik is dressed in black, contrasting his surroundings. Why are cruel men so insistent to paint everything white? To make an illusion of purity? He finds himself preferring the barbed wire, darkness and grime of the battlefield. The suitcase containing a hundred names is suddenly heavier in his hand.

After it is clear Erik will not respond to the ghastly prisoners, the glass goes white again, as if they had never existed at all.

"Mr. Lehnsherr," a uniformed man greets. The personnel here have the look of someone who'd score above 72 on the Milgram Obedience Examination. "He's expecting you."

Heopens the door for Erik, revealing a waiting room in the same minimalist fashion as the rest of the facility. The furnishing and colouring are simplistic and symmetrical. Loudspeakers play _musique d'ameublement_. Riptide and Azazel wait for him, wordlessly guiding him to the office. The last incident was four years ago, but none of Shaw's bodyguards trust him. They think him feral.

"Erik. How nice of you to join us."

Shaw's chair is in leather, complete with a designer glass desk. The plastic chair in front of it is small and uncomfortable, as to make the one sitting there feel just that.

Erik does not sit until Shaw gestures for him to do so. The man is eating blood sausage with honey. The dish has a tendency to fall apart or become bloated during roasting. If Erik did that to Shaw, would all the human juice inside spill over the white of his office? That'd be a pleasing sight. Erik meets Emma Frost's gaze and projects the image to her. All the indication that she saw is a small nose wrinkle.

Shaw smiles, lips wet with blood. "Want some?"

"No."

"Ah, yes, you've probably seen enough blood for a lifetime." Another bite. A _sluck!_ noise as the sausage implodes between his pomegranate red teeth. "Excellent job staging that massacre in Liege. Wasn't what I requested, but it produced great results."

"...Massacre?"

"Didn't you know? The humans you sent to that bunker never got out. As you know, it was a major safe zone for civilians, compact enough to withstand nuclear war. To avoid detection by radars, they had to turn the light off, leaving them in utter darkness. Elderly, children, ill people, and pregnant women. What could happen? Panic did. It spread like a virus. Sixty harmless individuals became savages. We don't know what triggered it. The bombs above? Human nature? Perhaps there was something else down there? Soldiers stationed outside came to their rescue as soon as they heard the screaming, but the door was locked _from the inside_. And then... silence. Not a sound. Nobody has managed to get the door up. Paranoia ate the ranks. Soldiers started killing each other. This is what happens when you try saving people, Erik."

Erik's jaw tightens. This is what he chooses to tell Erik after no contact in 4 months. He still knows exactly what to say to get under his skin. "I completed the missions. I did not disobey."

Shaw dries his mouth with a napkin. Oddly demonstrative, he lets it fall.

In a flash a boy captures it; a mutant with the power of super speed. His plump face is terrified, dishevelled hair platinum (as in the ore, not the blonde variant) and clothes reserved for obedient prisoners, although his 70mA shock collar tells that he can be rendered harmless at any moment.

"Good boy, Peter. Erik, tell me all the things you've done these past months."

It extinguishes him. The stillness returns and settles. "Sabotage. Bombing. Blackmail. Manipulation. Assassination. Warfare."

"See, Peter? The real monsters are out there. Not in here. Now scram." The boy obeys. As soon as he's gone, Shaw leans back. Erik is settled and has become Shaw's pet monster again. "You had something for me," Shaw says softly.

Erik presents the suitcase. He opens it, takes out folded paper copies, an USB and a computer. Shaw chooses the USB, gesturing something to Azazel. The mutant is badly disfigured after the battles in Thailand, neck scarred, left arm amputated. He's expressionless and does as commanded. A hologram map appears above them. Red dots blink beside names.

"With this information it'll be easy to target the opposition. Emma, begin the procedure, please."

Erik rises.

Shaw does, too. _"I did not say you were finished yet."_ He speaks German, which he only does during the nasty experiments and exercises Erik's forced to partake in. "Leave us." Azazel, Frost and Riptide do, albeit reluctantly. Shaw does not move until they're alone. He proceeds to circle Erik, admiring his handiwork, until he stops in front of him. "I have a special mission for you. However, I do believe I need to punish you."

After a quick scan of the room he sees 26 methods of mortally wounding Shaw through metal telekinesis. But Erik doesn't. He lets it throws Erik through the room.

The impact crushes three abstract statues. Pieces slide into his thigh. He releases bursts of absorbed energy, and Erik is again smashed against the wall, again and again. Shaw coordinates the eruptions, sometimes dragging the moments out, other times sending an everlasting avalanche on Erik until he _screams_. He curls into himself. It feels as if his body's very cells deconstruct. An eternity passes. When Shaw is finished, Erik is black and blue with bruises. His worth is the same as a lab rat.

_"Come here." _

Erik doesn't hesitate. He stumbles forward.

(This is the only life he's ever known.)

_"No."_ And then Erik is on his knees, walking on them, until Shaw pushes once more and he's on all fours. _"I want you to crawl."_

Erik does this too, a bruised and broken creature, worming forward until he's with Shaw's feet. He leaves a trail of blood. _"Tch tch. Get up." _Erik struggles to stand, swaying back and forth, trembling. He does not wish to see, but forces himself to greet his fate and see Shaw's fist in the air. _"I have missed this."_

It collides with his face with inhuman force.

His jaw fractures with a loud, awful _crack!_

For a millisecond, Erik considers fighting back. But he doesn't.

(This is the only life he'll ever know.)

_"Do not worry, we have a healer here. Like I said, I need you for something big. I want you to travel to northern Russia to buy a particular telepath for me. Now get out of my sight. You're drooling blood all over the floor." _

.

.

Erik isn't two steps out of Shaw's office before Azazel appears out of nowhere, grabs his arm, mutters _"Do not take this personal" _and teleports into an unknown room. He leaves as soon as he's finished. It is dark except several light bulbs screwed into the roof. It is 100% stone, and the nearest metal is too far to reach.

"They used to use this place for execution. They'd fill the place with gas, letting the subject into a deep, eternal sleep. Sounds relaxing?" Emma Frost reveals herself. "Don't worry. We're in the facility. Shaw won't know, and you won't tell him. I'm doing you a favour, Magneto."

She uses the name to spite him.

"I will not sugar coat it. I know that one day you'll finally _snap_ and kill him. And he'll let you. The reason I care is because if Shaw dies, his work decays along with him. That means all the children he has in his care, too. And I know he doesn't care for them. But he keeps us alive. You are a murderer. You are the dog for him to point in a direction, not a leader. Your trade is death. Should you murder Shaw, then I will murder you afterwards."

This is not a threat, or a warning. This is a promise.

"You will kill me," Erik concludes, although his jaw hurts like hell.

"Yes," Emma Frost agrees. Then, quieter: "If you are smart, you'll never come back with the telepath."

.

.

Shaw's jet is luxurious. It is like sitting in a cinema—when those things existed in other places than in literature or ruins—in which the windows are screens, showing a documentary of a war long since passed. They avoid combat zones, but every now and then they pass over burnt cities and villages. Three stops: the Rödenberget Fortress in what once was Sweden, and two secret bases somewhere in western Russia. Shaw has allies everywhere. Members of Shaw's inner circle go off and on. Erik is not allowed to leave. He spends his time reading.

The jet lands two kilometres from the final destination, a distance he must walk. Russian soldiers collect him halfway, exchanging no words until his ID has been scanned and Erik has said the codes. They lead him to the fortress. Erik feels a surge of power—because the construction is made of metal. It sings to him. Unlike Shaw, who is very reliant on his power, Erik prefers to use his as a surprise momentum. They do not know.

Erik carries another suitcase. As cash has become obsolete, the suitcase contains a biological weapon: a disease that makes the organs start their post mortem process. Antibiotics are expensive and they'd get a ton of soldiers by saying "fight for us or rot". More than enough to pay for a single mutant, so this one must be quite exquisite.

General O greets him; a land whale too scared to tell Erik his real name. In these ages, all bosses are fat and delusional. His buttons are about to burst. One can see the flabby skin underneath. Erik is more repulsed by him than of a decomposing corpse, but does not show it as he hands General O's assistant the suitcase.

This is all very...

Quiet.

The last time Erik was truly awake was four years ago, when he'd broken Shaw's nose. He walks in a coma, answering questions, blasé. The soldiers marching after them do not unnerve him. Their helmets are made of steel. Erik twists his thumb and a tiny bulk appears in the nearest man's headgear, reassuring him that he could squelch their little heads when he so desires.

"I think you would like a demonstration of the mutant's power, yes?" General O does not wait for an answer. "Prisoner number seven is _ferocious_. Killed over a hundred men. Thankfully for you, we have done the hardest part of the job: categorizing him, restraining him, surgically implanted tracking devices, among other things... He is very weak at the moment."

In another life, Erik might've reacted with rage at the inhuman treatment of a fellow mutant.

"Good. I'm glad this is not a lengthy affair."

General O smiles a wet lipped smile. "Yes. He is ready for you to take away."

Erik is led deeper into the fortress. Hadn't he been blanketed in stillness and steel, there'd been a sinking feeling twisting in his gut. This seems to be the scientific part of the construction. Unlike Shaw, who likes displaying his enemies-turned-experiments, there are no indications of evil deeds but the stink of hospital and blood.

"What are you to Shaw?" General O smiles even wider. This is the first thing Erik can't answer without thinking. "Are you his pet? A dog, yes? Because it'd be fitting to send back your head as a token, Mr. Frost. If you don't survive, that is."

Frost?

Why on earth do they think—?

Ah. They believe he's Emma Frost.

_'Oh for fuck's sake.'_

An invisible door opens, and Erik is thrown into it before he can object. It slams shut after him, and voices ring from the loudspeakers, but he blocks them out and starts banging on the door. It is completely dark around him. He stops as he recalls the woman, face gnarled with horror.

Something rustles behind him.

Someone turns the light on. Bright, unbearable, blue. He shields his face. Turns around. Sees a silhouette of a man. He has his hands in the pockets of his scrubs, facing Erik.

"Hello. My name is Charles Xavier." It is toneless, and he speaks with a British accent. "I'm a telepath, and they want me to kill you."

The man tilts his head to the side, listening to the Russian gibberish spewed over the loudspeakers. Erik adapts to the light. Xavier is a pale, skinny, and brown haired. Nothing odd in particular except massive injuries. His wounds have wounds, and his bruises have bruises. Xavier looks to have been maltreated regularly in a long time. A distinct example is his black eye: a dark purple eye lid, reddening circularly, until the last ring is yellowed as if greased with iodine. A cut goes from the upper bridge of his nose to eyebrow, cutting through the brow in the middle, ending about 5cm from the end of it. It is sewn shut with black thread. Too precise to be done in anger. Xavier has been tortured by someone cold and calculated.

However, the man is not broken, nor is he scared in any way. Instead there is steel in his eyes, and Erik wishes he could—

The voice cuts through Erik's thoughts and defences, slicing into his brain like a cold razor sliding across an eyeball.

_They say you're a telepath, too. I don't think so. _Xavier walks closer._ However, I do believe you're a mutant. Do you work for them?_

Erik thinks of all the things he can say to this man and settles on, "Fuck you."

Xavier smiles, but his split lip makes it ugly.

Meanwhile, the Russian continues until two distinct screamed words separate themselves from the rest. Erik doesn't know much Russian but knows this: "KILL HIM!" Xavier jerks. Smoke rises from his neck and wrists, where a metal collar and matching bracelets reside to keep him under control. God knows what else they've sewn into him. When he doesn't immediately do as ordered, an ear splitting sound erupts. Aural torment: a torture strategy. Like a dog whistle, for humans. Xavier falls to his knees, clutching his ears.

For Erik, it's an alarm clock. He stands up straight and holds out his arms.

The loudspeakers explode. What has been Xavier's room for the past months caves in on itself. The polished steel walls turn bulky, form twisting like jelly, and the thick door _curls_. It strains him. It is his turn to fall to his knees.

"Amazing," Xavier mutters, but the awe only lasts so long—then it turns ambitious and cunning. Erik feels him tryingly probe his mind, not quite as sharp as before. "Fascinating, too."

"Get out."

"Your options are limited. You're not strong enough to go on. Too many mental locks. There have been other people meddling in your head, haven't there?"

Gunshots echo on the other side of the ruined door.

"We don't have much time. Listen to me and—"

Erik hisses and clutches his head while Xavier follows, even if the steel still chants and curves.

—_allow me to enter your mind, Erik. Please. Let me in let me in letmeinletmein..._

It is a combination of stress and persuasion, because Erik bars his teeth and shouts, "Fine!" His defences drop like an atom bomb. Xavier reacts by slamming his hand flats against Erik's head.

_This will be rather painful. I'd say I'm sorry, but that would be a lie._

His world goes white.

.

.

When Erik comes back to consciousness, the first thing that hits him is the cold. Rather obvious, really, as he has snow up to his waist. But there is a different cold, also, one he hasn't felt in a long time. Never mind that he is sticky with blood that isn't his—so much in fact that his hair is soaked and it runs into his eyes—and never mind that there's a half dead telepath beside him in the snow.

His mind is cut open.

Clear.

He is free again.

Erik does not recall what Xavier did with his body, but he can't go back. He supposes he should feel empty or frustrated, as he has served Shaw since he was eight and that is now over. But instead there is icy calm. There is no turning back. If Shaw does not kill him, Emma Frost will.

"This is your fault," Erik says matter-of-factly to the unconscious mutant, briefly considering leaving him there. Why would he choose to stop here? Exhaustion? Has the cold killed him? He's stolen thicker clothes, so no. Erik looks around. They're on top of a hill. The facility or the jet isn't anywhere near them. But west of them, there is a village. That's where Erik heads.

Or, takes three steps towards it.

Then he turns, watching Xavier lie there. He's going to die. And if he doesn't, the Russians will collect him. That isn't an option. His arm is outstretched, revealing numbers. Unlike Erik's, they're not tattoos, but _carvings_.

Erik walks back to him immediately.


	2. arc I: survival — THE OLD

**Disclaimer:** X-men © Stan Lee

.

.

**Vacuum of God**

**arc I: survival**

**THE OLD**

.

.

_Drip. Drip. Drip_.

In lieu of coming from a nonfunctional sink, it comes from the two strangers. It's water mixed with blood, colouring the fallen snow sorbet. The door creaks as it opens and shuts. There's an occasional crackle of the hearth.

Apart from this, the inn is dead silent.

The two men are not family, which is easy to tell despite the deluge of blood that coats the conscious one. He looks hostile, teeth barred, shoulders rigid. His unconscious companion is more delicate, but the harm he's endured—flesh purple, blue and black—makes it hard to see.

(Perhaps Erik should have rethought his strategy. Xavier's weight is heavy on his shoulders.)

"We need a room for the night."

Instantaneously, a _click click click _reverberates through the tavern. Every single villager is armed to the teeth, regardless of age or sex. Rifles. Guns. Homemade editions. Knives. Bats. A pitchfork, held by a small girl. This is how habitants of small communities survive.

The innkeeper stops cleaning a glass for a moment. "Most of us do not understand English, but we do understand other things, stranger. Who did you kill?"

Erik's lips thin.

The innkeeper introduces a time schedule to speed things up. "If you don't answer within three seconds, I'll have to scrub your brains out of the floorboards tonight."

3.

2—

"Soldiers."

"What soldiers?"

The door is open at that moment. The mountains reside outside, behind the hills. Somewhere beneath them lies the fortress. Erik points towards where he came from. As if he's cast a spell, the inn's habitants calm down.

"Ah, _those_ soldiers. What is it you English say? The enemy of my enemy is my friend." The innkeeper gestures towards a staircase. "Let me show you a room."

.

.

Room X can best be described through its furnishing: a horsehair sofa, tables with mug rings, a closet with gilded handles, portraits of unsmiling Victorians, and a bed with iron brass. Erik is not a fan of the antique, but prefers it to Shaw's sterilized taste.

The innkeeper's wife is a skilled _babki_; a wise woman. She helps him remove the dead soldier's coat from Xavier's body. The stench of new wounds and old wounds reopened hit them like a foul gust. She brings stinging nettle to stem bleeding, mumiyo for ulcers, iodine to daub into bruises, among others. Vodka, too, as an antiseptic ("—and to shut boy up if he scream," the innkeeper's wife says.) Garlic hangs from the roof to stop possible diseases.

Erik sits beside Xavier on the bed. Located beside him are towels, a first aid kit, and a washing bowl. Red swirls in the scalding water; clouds escalating as new bits of metal drops into it. The procedure before him is a small machinery. Needles, stitching with delicate motions. The wet cloth on Xavier's' forehead is inverted every 10 minutes. Erik focuses on a bullet that exploded on impact, leaving it clustered inside the arm. It is easier like this. Less intimate. Less thinking. He finds shrapnel from older battles. Xavier's body is a map that reveals that he's fought before, each scar telling a story. They both have numbers infused on their skin.

This is the tensest 24 hours of Erik's life.

The primary concern is to keep Xavier warm. That phase is soon complete. What resides now is the threat of overheating. 10 minutes become 2, as the cloth is immediately inflamed. Erik checks the thermometer regularly. The fever could be a result of the shift in temperature or environment. Erik hopes General O's men haven't stuffed him with time clock illnesses.

("This, the most dangerous period," the innkeeper's wife says. "Depends on strength of will.")

When Xavier wakes, he's soaked with sweat and delirium. Wild eyes. Erik has theories like fright, possible alterations and memory loss. He lays a hand on Xavier's forehead, checking his condition. Xavier slowly reaches out to touch Erik's head. Erik captures his hand in a millisecond. "Don't even think about it."

To his surprise, Xavier speaks, "Wh—where?"

"Took you to the village. The people here are very hospitable after I told them we were enemies of General O." _'Stupid name.'_ "We're renting a room at the inn."

Xavier falls back again. He slips in and out of consciousness. The thermal reading has reached a decline when he wakes again, with the same crazed look. PTSD, perhaps? He seems to calm down again. "It's very quiet," he says hoarsely, swallowing spit that isn't there. "Not like in the cell, but still, quiet. I can hear 'em, and then I can't. It comes in waves... unbalanced. I don't like it." Afterwards he enters a rather stressful cycle, in which fever dreams mends with reality. "No don't! Don't! I'll... I'll do it, just don't..." Erik holds Xavier then, frowning at the pained expression. He passes out from exhaustion shortly afterwards.

The condition stabilizes, except a few attacks. They begin with paroxysm—sudden, ripping, hacking coughs in which Xavier is near coughing up his internal organs. Other times he goes so very still, and his breath so very shallow, that Erik must lay his head near his heart to check that he's alive.

Hours pass. He's comatose until he's not. Pale and clammy, he watches Erik work, silently. The innkeeper's wife gets some chamomile tea and hot milk with honey for his sore throat. It gives Erik a small break to wash off the blood.

When he returns, Charles is somewhat awake. Erik goes straight to business. "You have a flesh wound on your back unlike the others. What happened?"

"Microchip. Had to... get it out."

"What did you use? Knives? Fingers? It's is too precise for that."

Xavier pauses. "Used you."

"Me," Erik says flatly.

"Yes. The restrains as well." The telepath holds up his wrists, wincing, revealing rashes created by handcuffs too tight. His neck has a matching one. "Made you kill people, too."

"Ah. How many?"

Something that is a very ordinary question for Erik to encounter (his most common answer is _"I don't keep a count_", which entertains Shaw) makes Xavier fret. "Lots. I d— I don't know, really." Xavier straightens, stoic again. "Don't think me weak. When I was thirteen, I made twenty men shoot themselves." There it is again—the crazed glint, spoiled by a hacking cough. "...Your mind is very messed up, Lehnsherr. Took control almost instantly. Contains trails of another telepath."

(_"Do it, boy. Or would you rather Emma here went in and did it for you? You'd have no recollection of it afterwards, and I'd imagine you'd wonder why there's blood under your fingernails. Yes, of course, it _is_ better being aware, isn't it? Now aim the coin at a major artery."_)

What unnerves him more than the thought of Frost messing with his mind is not knowing if Xavier has.

Erik chooses not to respond. The conversation dies out. The bowl is now full of shrapnel, which Erik curls into a ball for easier disposal. His current focus is handling the injuries, either left breathing, or covered with either remedies or rags to absorb leakage. Dressing his wounds is done with utmost care. He's bandaged thoroughly.

Xavier awakens once more, and stares at him for a while. The soup the innkeeper's wife brings returns some colour to his cheeks.

"You want to know what I know concerning _you_."

Erik tenses.

"It's extremely hard to tell the motivations behind each thought—if there is one at all—and which thought is yours and not a product of instruction. This is what I know: Your name is Erik Lehnsherr. You're a mutant that possesses a mastery of magnetism. You work for a man you fantasize about butchering, and your past is full of pain and you use it to power your gift. Using my own knowledge and the name they yelled during the bloodbath, I deduced that you're Magneto. _The_ Magneto." Xavier leans back, muttering something along the lines of _"god save us all"_. "You're not stupid, so you have figured that their surgeries and beatings have diminished my power. Plus, I was too busy killing to analyze you. But I want to. Need to."

"No," Erik says.

"You allowed me last time."

"That was different. A life and death situation. I_'_m not letting you inside my head again."

"What makes you think this isn't a life and death situation, too? Tell me who you are. And what that Shaw guy wanted with me. Lives depend on it."

Erik sneers, "I will tell you nothing."

Xavier sighs, and says, "Then I must—"

—_rip it out of you. _

Two fingers pressed against Erik's head. White edges at his vision. Erik _hates_ white.

Seeing as how Xavier's weaker now, the procedure is much more painful. Sharper. For both. But Erik is stronger now. Xavier ruined some of those mental locks, cutting through the cluster and making a fine line. Fury pours through it. Although the battle is mental, Erik's powers manifest physically.

Doorknobs rattle, the framed photos shake, the bed trembles...

But it isn't enough.

Charles is livid and bitter. His rage is an ancient thing, gained through all the fates he's encountered and all the emotion he's absorbed, channeled through him, cool like a river. He's determined to win this battle. But Erik's mind is complicated. There are layers to peel and repressed memories to rupture. He compares it to walking through a mist, grabbing at shadows.

A strategy Erik has never considered until now is projection. He'd discovered it as a boy to get back on Frost when she tattled on him. Erik's thoughts whirl (for Charles, a maelstrom he cannot escape) until it settles on a singular memory:

_Holding a hand of a girl scared shitless. Guiding her though tunnels and doors, skilfully avoiding guards. "Calm down," he hears himself say, "and trust me. Please, Magda. You must trust me." They're underground somewhere. Grey walls turn ragged, unpolished. They match the girl when she turns her head, revealing the other side of her face. Ropey, purple veins that embedded into hardening, greying flesh like an alien parasite, weaving around her eye to sink into the corner and poison it liquid black. _

_The memory prompts another one; a more faded, fainter sequence of a the girl—smaller and unblemished—crying and pumped full of liquid with needles and tubes, and a voice asking "See, Erik, how easily beauty is tarnished?"._

_When it jumps back to the older version of the girl, she's running no more. Instead there's an unrecognizable mess of punctured flesh with entrails weeping out of the holes shot by .45 calibres ammo. The perspective shakes because Erik shook back then. A small applause echoes behind him. "Told you so," says the voice._

Xavier recoils. "What the hell was that?"

"Memories," Erik says simply, hands in his pockets. Then, leeringly, "You don't want to be inside my head, Xavier." Now, Xavier is the one pushing himself away from Erik, but he's hurt, slowing the process. Erik follows him on the bed so that they're face to face. "I dare you to do it again."

"If you're going to fuck," says the innkeeper, suddenly standing in the doorway, "try to be a bit more quiet."

It is not crazy of him to deduce this. After all, one man is lying almost on top of another half naked man, faces close. Erik moves off at once. Xavier clears his throat. "Duly noted," he rasps.

Erik moves to stand with the window. It lies in the direction of the fortress. The landscape outside is grey. He imagines that they'd come from there, hundred, thousands, millions of nightmarish ant/human hybrids, crawling over the hills to consume the village like tar.

"Thank you," Xavier finally says, subdued. "I should've said it sooner. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Erik says. He dislikes being apologized to. "I understand your motivations, but that doesn't mean I agree with them."

"I see that now." Xavier sits up in his bed. "But... I can't trust you. Your reputation precedes you. I've heard tales..." He blinks them away. "I don't understand why you're doing any of this."

"You are my best option." _'You are all I have left.' _"I can't go back. Even if I won't let you inside my mind, I have demanded no questions from you.

"But you trust me." A statement. Not a question.

Erik turns. His face is shadowed. "I trust you not to kill me. We have a common goal."

"And what is that goal?"

"Survival."

Xavier is unreadable. He carefully pushes the covers aside, and stands up using the bed frame to support himself. "...I agree. I do want to survive, along with others like me. That's my goal as well—the goal of the organization I was once part of. Saving people. That's why you ran with that little girl, right? To rescue her?"

"You saw what happens when I try save people."

He holds out a hand. "Then let's make sure that doesn't happen to anyone else." Erik walks to him, the wooden floor squeaking under his woollen clad feet. He comes face to face with Xavier and grabs his hand. The two killers close the deal with a firm handshake.

"Erik," Xavier says.

"Charles," Erik replies politely.

They do not say _"this is the start of a beautiful friendship"_ because both men are too blood soaked to be beautiful—nor it is a friendship, because they're not friends. There is harshness and certainty to them, at least. None of them thinks that they haven't got the guts to do this. It feels meant to be.

.

.

Erik goes downstairs to the inn's first floor—the pub area. It's in the same vintage style as the upstairs bedroom. Burgundy walls, oaken furniture, and photos of lustrous coca cola women. The winter wind licks into the crevices in the windows and whines to be let in. Cattle moo as they pass the bar, being taken to the pastures. Erik seats himself opposite of the innkeeper.

"What will it be? It's on the house."

"Doppelbock."

"You German? ...Never mind. The flag means nothing when torn to shreds." The innkeeper readies a tankard. The beer is a dark brown with ruby highlights, malty, _strong_. "I take it that you're tankborn. You see, here in this village, we're well acquainted all about the Factories. I think you do, too."

Factories. Mighty, towering constructions of stone and concrete, surrounded by giant walls patrolled by veteran guards. The Holocaust, upgraded, destroying children to recreate them into perfect soldiers—i. e., tankborn or tankbred. The worst Factories are specialized for mutants. There are even breeding stations. Technology is rarely helpful. These days, everything is designed to kill you. Erik was there until Shaw bought him, beginning their relations by shooting Erik's mother.

"That thing up there is a Factory. Every three years, they come here. They'll strap devices to us, looking for mutants, or sometimes even normal kiddies for target practice. Because of the radiation from the nuclear wars, the chance increases significantly. We've had many children taken from this village. Mostly old people left." The innkeeper has a sort of seen-it-all look, but now he's fuming. He sedates himself with moonshine. "Our little Sofia was taken from us. They shot my brother when he tried to stop them from taking her away. She died last year after a soldier _accidently _cracked her skull, twelve years old. All we have left is Dina. She'll be eight come spring."

"Is she a mutant?"

He turns serious. "Yes. A healer."

"Will you be able to hide her?"

"No. This chance lessens with you here, but we hoped you can help. In five days, they will come for their three year check. Our sources say they have advanced scanners. I will not let them take her."

"Should they get here while I'm here, there will be bloodshed," he says matter of factly, finishing his beer.

"I'm counting on it."

.

.

The innkeeper lied.

The soldiers from the Factory come the day after, yelling and banging on doors as they march through the streets. The innkeeper and his wife have been summoned outside for the ritual. The villagers are ushered past the inn.

"Knew it," Erik hisses. He's already packing, having gone through the house during moments of wake. Rations, clothing, ammo... He shoves them in a bag. "You cannot trust anybody."

Charles is quieter. He hopes that the echoing _rat-at-ta_ outside is purely to scare. "It is perfectly understandable. He wished that his daughter would be saved." He knew as well? Idiot telepath. "And she will be. Don't you dare say anything else. You're with me, remember?"

"You want us to go against the army outside? You're in no condition to fight them. It's a miracle you can walk."

"Then where will we go?"

"The Train."

"Ah. So you know about it." Of course he did. He'd researched this place beforehand. Besides, the Train was wide known. Its tracks went through all of Europe, having become somewhat of a pacifist transportation method. "Yes, the innkeeper didn't want to tell us that either. Afraid we'd go. We cannot leave them."

"Our goal was survival, _Charles_."

"That means survival for other people too."

Erik is sick of this. He makes a quick decision. "Control me, then."

"What?"

"If you can control me, you can do the same to the soldiers. You said it was easy."

Charles holds out a hand and _pushes_. Erik steps aside and allows Charles easier access. This goes on for about 30 seconds. Moisture forms at his temple. He trembles. Erik feels it tug, but not anything else. The connection shakes too much. True to Erik's theory, Charles gives up. He is too old to say "I told you so". Instead he settles on a quiet, "We need to get out of here."

.

.

The air is thick with the humidity before rain, sky low and clouds full.

They crawl through the dirt of back allies, Charles scanning the area for souls, finding none. "I may not be in my healthiest state, but I'm not completely useless_._ There's no one here. Their thoughts come from the east. An incoherent babble, a vibrating murmur... Can't separate them. Fear is apparent. Hate. Anger. But also a sense of resigned coolness from the soldiers."

"East is where we have to go, correct? So in that direction."

The path becomes open. The mist hides them, but Charles claims everybody is at the same spot. He moves a little slower than Eric, the damage on his feet slowing him down. They enter a graveyard, crawling through the muddy tracks. It seems like there are more graves than living villagers. The everlasting war has taken its toll, especially among children. "They're inside a church!" Charles realizes as he sees the big construction through the mist.

"Let's go around it to reach the train tracks. We've gone far enough," Erik whispers. He has a sinking feeling. He's seen this sort of thing before. But Charles is more impatient, and in a way, more naïve.

"I have to see. It seems strange to put them all in one spot."

"No. We're not going further." Erik refuses. He forces Charles to look at him. "I agreed to survive. Should their censors discover us, we'll be butchered. Or worse, taken back. Do you want more tubes stuck into you?" Charles blanches. "We'll go _now_, even if I have to drag you there."

Then Charles has the nerve to smirk. "I don't think you'll do it."

"Why?"

"Because you're attracted to me."

Erik stiffens, interrogated. He doesn't care for aesthetics, but he can't stop his body from responding. Not that he has a strained relationship with sex—motto being _fuck and run_—but he almost never has time nor energy for human relations. And Charles is pretty, in a crushed porcelain doll sort of way. It is not something he can control. Charles must've found it rummaging around in his head, as attraction resides on the surface.

"It means nothing," he growls.

"Didn't say it did. But you did sit with me for nearly twenty-four hours making sure I was alright."

Erik contemplates breaking Charles' nose.

But he has a better idea. Without a word, he continues towards the church. When they're close enough, he stops. First, the church is in complete darkness—and then there is light.

Sharp, quick lightning. On and off, on and off, in milliseconds.

Gunshots.

An execution of a whole village. Erik can see small red hands beating at the glass until they tremble and stall. Holes appear in the glass. Murky liquid pours from the crack under the doors and onto the stairwell.

The door opens. Erik shoves Charles' head _down_. Soldiers jog out and make a line. A blonde teenager wearing a captain's uniform goes last, but doesn't close the door until he's yells, "You try to escape and we kill even _more_ kids!" A hole has been drilled in the wall. Soldiers roll an apparatus forth. The numbering on it is the same as the biological weapon Erik traded with General O. He becomes very aware what is about to happen.

"You don't want to see what happens next," Erik whispers. "We can't stop them."

"I can hear them now. Screaming. Can you?"

He can't. They're screaming inside, then. Charles seems receptive to strong emotion, even more so than before. It's true what he said about the instability of his power.

Erik holds Charles' wrist, leading them in the opposite direction. The bag is heavy on his shoulders. He's cold and muddy. But it'll have to do. They pass an overgrown stonewall, and follows it until they're far enough away from the church—far enough to see it being set ablaze. They're almost there and Charles collapses, hands on his ears, eyes tightly shut. He groans in pain. "Shut up, stop, please..." Erik sees it burn behind him, flames licking up the grand structure. The captain was a mutant. He'd seen it. And according to the equipment sewn onto his suit, his power is fire.

Erik feels the metal of the train tracks in front of them vibrates and thrums with energy. The train is close.

"They're burning to death," Charles breathes. "I _feel_ them." But then he pauses for a little while, frowning. "There's something else... someone else... A little girl! She's in the outskirts of the town. She saw the church burn. She's just seven, and _she saw them burn_..."

Dina.

But they don't have time.

And it is Erik's time to burst. Panic sneaks into his voice. " We need to go! Why can't you see reason?"

"I'm sorry Erik. My reason is different from yours."

And then he's standing again, turning around, and walking back the way they came from. No trumpet, no fanfare. Just wind. Charles leaves Erik standing in the snow. Two black dots, whose distance increases. Erik makes his way to the miniature station.

He imagines Charles finding the little girl, saving her, telling her that it's going to be alright when it's so obviously not. He's the sort of person who'd do that.

(_"Everyone you try to save dies, Erik. Doesn't that say something about your characters?"_)

He's not quite sure what he'll do when he gets on the train, or where it'll take him. Being lonesome leaves one vulnerable, especially when there's numbers on one's arm that's checked by every potential employer. They'd type his number into the computer, and the photos and articles they'd find would not be flattering. When he turns around (he shouldn't do that—Charles and the girl is dead, dead, dead), the whole village is aflame. The fire mutant has gone berserk. Even if there were villagers hiding in their houses, they're ashes now.

The train arrives. As it is electronic, it has no operator, and it pauses at every stop for 10 minutes.

He chooses a carriage that's a bit behind and empty. There are seats that can become beds and lots of blankets. Other essentials are brought by the passenger. He looks over the field. Nothing. It has started raining, though. He goes inside, sits down, and waits.

_Erik! _

His eyes open wide. Charles?

_I have the girl! She's unharmed, and she's a mutant, and she healed my legs, and oh my, am I running fast! This is amazing!_

Oh, defiantly Charles, high on adrenaline and madness. Erik peeks out the carriage door. He sees two people running towards them, very far away. The problem is, the train starts moving. Erik throws himself out of it just before the door slams shut.

The train is leaving.

And that is not the biggest problem: Soldiers are following Charles, including the pyromaniac mutant. He seems to be blowing fire at them to make them run faster.

Erik stares at the train. He extends his mind. Focuses. Grabs hold of it—and pushes it _back_.

The strange metallic boom echoes through the mountains.

That is when the soldiers open fire.

Erik falters, letting go of the train to stop the bullets aimed for Charles and the girl on his back. Some shoot friends in the chaos. The train takes up speed. Erik has the sensation of being torn in two.

_You need to focus on something else than hate,_ Charles transmits. _It's not strong enough._

_'No. It's just that I don't have enough hate. Do you think you can find a strong enough memory?'_

He sees Charles clearer, now, telling the girl to hold on and pressing two fingers against his head. Silence pass. A volcano explodes inside Erik; a bunch of eruptions threatening to explode his mind and guts. No one ever cleans the train, so it'd be stuck there forever. Erik is starting to feel the insanity Charles is so well acquainted with. Charles sounds horrified, _I... I can't find anything positive enough._

_'Of course there isn't.'_ Erik yells in pain, but it gains a hysterical touch, mouth curled into a grin with far too many teeth. _'Find a negative memory. Something deep and rotten.'_

Charles does.

It concerns Shaw of course and Emma Frost. The scene begins with foreshadowing. The two of them are standing there, saying, _"As sad as it may be to lose such an exquisite experience, I don't think his young mind will handle it. At least we know he _can_ do such a thing. Emma, if you'd please...?"_ And then it plays what she took from him, while he sees her face displaying guilt for the very first time.

_'Ah. I did not know I was the one to do that,' _Erik thinks as he's drowned in emotion.

He screams.

The train comes back.

Charles is closer now, that's all he registers. He's in a blurred world of pain and madness, each joint cracking with nervous energy. He sees the soldiers. This is what he thinks: I want them gone.

And as he commands, the guns are suddenly against their own throats. He doesn't know why, but there's something pleasing about them shooting themselves in the neck.

_No! We don't have to kill them, Erik!_

Oh? Then Charles _and_ the little girl will die. _'Do you want that? To see another little girl look like she's gone through a meat grinder?' _He projects the image he can so easily imagine._ 'That's what'll happen. Have a good look, Charles.'_ That seems to have lit the match. Erik feels the subtle shift in Charles' mind—which is now very connected to his own—and the old equality advocate, crack. He feels the acknowledgement.

The soldiers don't shoot themselves.

Instead, the telepath goes into their heads and _twists_.

They're dead before they hit the ground.

Charles slows down when he reaches the station. He's panting. The mad glint is fading, but it's still there. The girl has buried her head in his neck, crying silently. They stagger inside the chosen carriage. Right before Erik lets go, the goddamned fire mutant has reached them.

"I'm gonna grill you inside that fucking thing," he says madly. "I'm Pyro, master of flames!"

_Creative._

"Not the moment for snark, Charles." Erik rises a hand, making the nearest light post bend and curls around Pyro's feet, turning him upside down. He's quite ready to suffocate him to death when Charles—the old one, he thinks—lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't kill him, Magneto. Let him send a message."

The train shoots away, leaving a burning village and a sea of corpses behind.


	3. arc I: survival — THE CHILDREN

**Disclaimer:** X-men © Stan Lee

.

.

**Vacuum of God**

**arc I: survival**

**THE CHILDREN**

.

.

"Had you mentioned we'd be doing _this_, I'd have brought different shoes," Emma Frost says as she nearly steps into some scattered intestine. It comes out nasal because of her filter mask. Hadn't she worn it, the stench would've been unbearable.

Bodies surround them, stacks piled high, cooked medium well. Some are fused together; a black mass with arms and legs poking out at odd angles, mostly found in dead end allies—villagers who tried to run. They didn't get far, since most of the village's inhabitants were old people. A lone, fat corpse sits on their knees in the middle of the street, hands reaching towards the heavens. From the waist (waste?) up, everything's scorched. A fitting comparison would be if you put a 150IB meatloaf in the oven for 5 hours.

It confirms Frost's suspicion: Pyro is fucked in the head.

Giving him as a gift to the Russians had been a bad idea. The years there have left him with an unusual vocabulary and a taste for cruelty. But no matter what they put him through, he'd always remain loyal to Shaw. The latter is less repulsed than her. Why, he seems to be enjoying himself, rubbing his gloved hands together. It makes a nasty sound.

"John," Shaw greets.

The blonde turns around, aggressively quick. He moves fast for someone who's been stuck to a lamp post for a while. Few things remain of the snivelling little boy whose only interests were Gothic fiction and religion. Then he sees Shaw and goes on all fours. An accent laces his words, "Master. _True_ master."

"Is this is your work?" Shaw asks. Pyro nods, the whole of him shaking with the effort. He's a dog, this one. Broken. Deranged. Shaw nonchalantly continues, "I presume you left some of them alive."

"Yes, master. I asked the sinful couple who'd harboured the _turncloaks_..." Pyro puts emphasis on words he dislikes, "...but they would not tell me anything useful. So I tortured and crucified them." He points to two giant wooden crosses, perhaps 3 meters, tilted slightly to the left. The figures on the cross have spikes driven through their wrists—a vile imitation of Jesus' crucifixion. It's hard to tell what the old couple died off; haemorrhage, hyperthermia, blows to the head... The legs are broken. Such attention to details!

"What did they tell you?" Shaw asks, amused.

"I asked them if they admitted to hiding and helping apostates. They shared a look, and the old man said, crying, 'I know no traitors, only human beings'."

"And you are certain it was Erik who hid here, along with the telepath who annulled those men?"

Annul.

To cancel, to void, to obliterate.

It _is_ a nice definition of what they found in the snow alongside the train tracks.

The corpses had been so swollen from the tundra turned marshland that they looked like white balloons. Those left alive were brain dead and drooling. Once granted permission, Pyro had set fire to them and watched them all crisp and pop.

"Yes," Pyro confirms. "I knew it was Lehnsherr. I thought he'd go on the train, but he didn't. Waited for the... the clairvoyant, who had a child with him. We were ordered to test the biological weapon, observe the effects, and conduct a massacre. We knew Lehnsherr and the telepath were there. Finding them would've been swift. The Train... we didn't know. The factory keepers have private methods of transportation and know nothing of its schedule."

"So Erik's betrayal was because of a few mistakes and bad timing?" Shaw shakes his head, amused. "I thought he'd grown up enough by now not to believe in miracles. Especially as his little world will end quite soon."

.

.

What is war to a child?

Pain. Ultimately, loss. A never ending lack of control.

Charles studied psychology back when he was confined behind tall walls. Children are simplified when it comes to understanding, far more difficult when it comes to socialisation. The girl of eight displays common vulnerabilities: withdrawal and worrying. Like her mother, she's a muscular little lady, huddled in a quilt Erik brought. She will not let go of Charles' arm. He introduces structure by telling her who he is and where they'll go, made plain: Eastern Europe, in a city called Beist, surrounded by hills. A safe place. She falls asleep after Charles manages to coax some seafood into her.

Erik prefers a dark corner of the carriage with metal pressing against him, soothing him. He cares little for psychology. For him, it's easier to contemplate the fly dying in the windowsill. On its back. Buzzing till it goes still. Question like, say, when he became attracted to Charles, that's tougher.

"You could've said something, you know," Charles says.

"I don't do well with children." It is very honest. "Saw you mouthing a list over symptoms and functions. PTSD, noncompliance, chance of depression... You studied psychology, correct? Freud, Jung?"

"I find pedagogy more fulfilling than sex and spirituality, thank you," Charles says. He lifts the girl up and lays her on the couch. Compassionate for a man that just neutralized dozens of soldiers. "We need to talk."

He sits down on the floor, opposite from Erik. The clouds outside the window remain low and fat with rain, wetlands never ending. The sun is descending. It'll take some time until they'll reach Beist. Good thing Erik packed durable nourishment in tins and jars; potted, brined, smoked meat and vegetables.

"Firstly, thank you for saving my life again. And for waiting. Because of it, I've decided to trust you more. I want to trust you completely, but I can't."

A curt nod. "Will you tell me about the plan? I heard what you told the girl."

"The girl's name is Dina," Charles corrects. "And the reason we'll stop in Beist is because I got allies there."

"What kind of allies?"

The Train stops. There are occupants in the other carriages (Erik can feel the vibrations) but who they are no one's business. The Train exists in a different world. There are rumours of people who live on it.

Charles pauses. "The reason for my capture was my involvement in an independent nongovernmental organization whose goal was the destruction of Factories and the freeing of mutants and humans alike. Equality. Peace."

"Peace," Erik repeats. It sounds foreign on his tongue. "Seen a lot of dead NGO members." He distinctively recalls a girl with white ribbons in her hair that demonstrated in front of a tank, à la the famous Chinese photo. The ribbons weren't so white afterwards. "Seen a lot of dead kids."

"The toll is high, but at least the kids perish with the thought of doing a difference."

"They do so believing a lie." One more insect, dying in the windowsill.

"No. Truth."

"Truth is subjective."

Charles straightens. "If you find it futile, why are you here with me? I'm certain that if you went back to your boss begging for mercy and presented my head as a gift, he'd take you back."

Erik swallows. Once. A single bob of his Adam's apple. The rest of him is stoic. When he answers, his tone is blasé, "And I'm certain the villainous Magneto's head would make your allies applaud you."

"Am I talking to Magneto right now? Or am I conversing with Erik Lehnsherr, the man who set his own life on the line saving me? Twice?" The metal rumbles in return, sharing Erik's discomfort. Charles sighs. "Listen. Please. I don't mean to upset you and again I _am_ grateful, but believe me when I say I saw something in you. A will to fight. A fire." _'A fire that'd burn the world down if I let it, which I won't,' _Charles thinks. "I know you won't give me to Shaw."

Erik looks like he's going to bristle

(—and this is good, Charles thinks, because that'd mean he'd let loose and—)

but instead, he hastily rummages around in the satchel, grabs a bottle and pours in.

"You brought alcohol?"

"Yes."

The old fashioned mentor vanishes. Pieces of chalk break off, revealing an exhausted young man. "Gimme."

"...No."

"You are a cruel man." Charles crosses his arms, but he's smirking. "What if you'd bet it?"

"If we'd have a chess board, I'd suggest a game instead of a bet."

"That would be nice. Too bad all we have is a bottle of moonshine. We could play with that," Charles says. It is meant as a joke, but sparks an idea in Erik's head. At his expression, Charles frowns, "I was joking. What are you thinking about, spin the bottle?"

Erik ignores that. "A game of truth, since you're so fond of both. The rules are simple. I ask you a question, you answer. Then you ask me a question, and I answer. We pass the bottle back and forth. If one says pass, then the other play gets another try, and the first player doesn't get to take a swig." Erik's chin moves up, prideful. "Is your power functional?"

"No, it's silent again. Eerily so. After I... shut off—"

"Killed," Erik corrects. A little revenge. "Let us be _truth_ful."

Charles quiets, "After I killed those people, it went completely off. Couldn't hear anything. I've probably just exhausted it. It'll return, like it did last time."

_'Perhaps it surfaces with his madness?' _"Maybe we can play fair then. You start." Erik sends the bottle over.

"Are you afraid of your power?"

Sharp. Quick. Deadly.

Proof of Charles' intent of not holding back. The idiot begins with subject of fear. The game's purpose is to supply one with information while bewildering the opponent. The metal is cool against Erik's back; cool like he needs to be. In this instant, Erik sets two goals.

1. His primary aim is more info on Charles Xavier, function being potential blackmail.

2. He will tell the truth (even if he lets out details), function being establishing trust.

Erik settles. Breathes in. Out.

"I refuse to be reliant on it." Charles sends the bottle over to him and watches him drink; a process that'll be repeated numerous times. Erik puts the action of drinking on automatic to focus on decoding Charles. He casually asks, "Are you afraid of yours?"

"No." Charles drinks with the grace of an aging alcoholic. "How long have you been working for your boss?"

Subject I: childhood.

_'Does he disclose his objectives on purpose? Or does he wish to piss me off? Hm. Excellent technique.' _"Since I was eight," Erik answers. "Where were you when eight?"

"In my parents' private submarine, luxurious and militant." A starkly honest answer. Erik must repay that. Fuck. Charles drinks more, this time. "Where were you?"

"The camps. Factories, today. Last stop Auschwitz, now part of the Body, and yes, _the_ Body." He remembers the smell. He'd walked through sewers and it couldn't compare. It was one of the reasons Erik first trusted Shaw and his promise of cleanliness—and chocolate, which Erik now associates with his mother's corpse, as his face had been smeared with it (like excrement) when Shaw shot her. "Accidently made a fence pare some Nazis. The boss liked my talents. Why did you leave your parents?"

It takes a while before Charles answers. "They were... disappointed to discover that I was a mutant. More disappointed still when I showed interest in mutant affairs, especially after a former associate of mine started a murder rampage. Do you remember anything from before the camps? Something positive?"

A teeny tiny bit of desperation.

Idiot x2.

"No." The booze burns all the way down. "Who was that associate of yours?"

Charles' expression eats itself. Twists in pain and then blank. "Pass."

"A friend?"

"_Pass_."

"That intimate, huh?"

"Shut up Lehnsherr. She was a friend, now she's not." It is dark inside the carriage, but Erik feels the subtle shift in atmosphere. He's becoming accustomed to Charles' insanity. "Tell me, how did your boss punish you?"

That stung.

Erik swallows fury and bile, repressing and ingesting. "Multiple methods. It's possible for a telepath to transmit delusions, Frost's speciality. Have you ever had your stomach torn open, Charles? Clutching your guts as it spills onto the carpet? Or what about living under the constant threat that if I misbehaved, Frost would meddle with my mind? And the knowledge that if she did, I wouldn't know afterwards? That was unpleasant. So, Xavier, have you ever despaired?"

"Yes." This time, it isn't a sip. Charles drinks like an old drunkard. "You try to escape?"

Subject II: Adolescence.

"A few times. Last attempt when I was fourteen." Even alcohol can't dim the last image Erik has of Magda. "And you?"

"Escaped when I was sixteen." He chews at his thumb. His eyes dart back and forth, thinking. Erik doesn't need light to know they're bloodshot. Tired. Sad. _Drunk_. "Dunno how old I am anymore."

"Me neither." Is it the alcohol making him talk? Erik is less influenced. He drank lots of water when Charles wasn't looking.

"...You lose time when on alert. Prisons. Trenches. Some mutant had fucked up the sky, electricity was off, and it was _so_ dark... No child should have to..." he trails off, ending in an inhale through his nose. His retreats into himself. Erik absorbs the knowledge of Charles being a soldier, and imagines meeting him on a battlefield. They should get back to the questions.

"Why were you imprisoned in that Factory?" Erik asks, more insistent.

Subject III: adultho—

"You're not bad looking, y'know."

Erik's mental evaluation jars.

It occurs to him that this is the end of one game, and the beginning of another.

Charles sways back and forth, "I know... I know what you're trying to do, y'know. Fuck that." He stands up, leaning on the wall. A minor bump in the road makes him fall again. This makes him giggle, unfortunately. Unashamed, he crawls to Erik.

A rational man might've stopped him.

Erik observes, with the same odd fascination he saw on a soldier covered in her exploded lieutenant. Still, he cannot be unprepared. Therefore, Erik removes a layer off the iron walls, shapes them into sharp drills, rotating just behind Charles' head. The telepath doesn't stop until he's right in front of Erik. Then he promptly walks to stand over him for three intense seconds, before promptly sitting down on Erik's lap. It's a sort of intimidation.

Charles' smile widens. There is a strange clarity in those blue eyes.

"The girl, Xavier," Erik says. He returns the smile, but his is sharper. "You'll wake her."

"It's _Dina_. D'you ignore their names? To categorize 'n dehumanize? To forget?"

"Charles," Erik says pleasantly, "if you don't get off me now I'll lobotomize you."

"I don't think so. 'Cos you're at—trac—ted to me." His pronunciation is slow, like speaking to a child. He's testing boundaries. Leaning forward. He wants Erik to look at his lips, slightly parted, waiting to be kissed.

So Erik gives him a kiss.

But instead of his mouth, it's his fist. His knuckles bruise on impact. The spot is bad, because of the teeth gracing him. Bacteria, transferred. One might think it sexual. Worth it though, because Charles will get a fat lip that'll serve as a reminder of his error whenever he talks.

He stumbles off Erik, returning to and collapsing in his corner. He curses a bit. The drills follow him. Erik considers them for a moment, before reshaping them. Most return to their place in the wall. The rest he compresses and grinds like cheese, resulting in thin wire. He wraps it around Charles neck, becoming a collar Erik can crush Charles' windpipe with. The thought is so lovely it's a lullaby, and Erik finally allows himself some sleep.

It isn't long before he feels vibrations across the floor. Erik's eyes fly open.

The girl stands there, beside Charles. She's healing Charles' swollen lip. Under her glowing hands, it disappears. She does not stop. His face, his arms, his chest, his legs... She does not shy away as she lifts his sweater. How many times has she done it for an old villager, wrinkly, hairy and liver spotted? Healed their aching backs and their blistered hands? Erik watches her till she's done and she looks at him again, threateningly. A watchdog, guarding Charles from him.

Erik falls asleep smiling.

.

.

Beist.

_Beast_.

After the demolition or constant adjustment within Europe's geography, few places have their original name in the common tongue. Instead, they are named after what they're known for. In Beist's case, growth. According to what little documentation remains, the City of Beist is a little less than 2km2—however, _Beist_ itself is sprawling organic matter, devouring everything in its path. Villages. Towns. Other could make the comparison of a morbidly obese person lying down, skin flabs rolling outwards the more it eats.

The architecture has a washed out colour palette. The buildings all look like abandoned warehouses.

The train doors open and two and a half figures exits. The gush of the real world hits them. The station lies in the midst of the sprawling city, from what they can see its only habitants are rats. The doors and windows are bolted shut. There's debris everywhere—some street corners littered with spilled thrash cans, broken glass, scattered ammo. An exploded tank. Battles were conducted here. No wooden houses remain.

"We won't waste time. We're heading straight for my allies." Charles rubs his head, but it is not because of another hangover. That one time passed in silence without any complaints or puke. He'd pointedly been monosyllabic with Erik after that. He looks intimidating in his oversized coat, but carrying Dina piggyback reduces the image. Beist looms over them, and Charles holds Dina a little tighter. She is a merciful girl, and does not make noise.

"When was the last time you visited Beist?" Erik asks.

"Years."

"How long did you stay?"

"A few nights." Charles gives him a sidelong glance, but refuses to continue the conversation.

Erik shrugs. He has the upper hand here. He knows the secret of Beist; the one that no one wishes to talk about; the reason moms scare their kids with _if you don't behave I'll send you to Beist_. But he stays quiet. It is there again, the fascination of seeing something break. Charles will. Erik is certain.

Soon the landscape changes, and instead of battle worn, the allies become crooked, narrowing because of nature reclaiming lost ground. Charles is determined. "We are following the chalked... woman's lower regions. Help me look."

A truce?

"Ah. Yes," Erik says. And that's when he sees them—white vaginas, everywhere. It'd been humorous if Erik didn't immediately understand the meaning, which he is 110% certain that Charles does not. It leaves a bad aftertaste in his mouth. "...You are aware that people change, yes?"

"Of course I am," Charles snaps, agitated. This is a bad neighbourhood. They've both seen the shadows moving behind bushes and fences, watching them. "I trust _you_, don't I?"

Erik struggles with the words. He's used to explaining things in quick, simple terms. This is not simple. "I think you removed something. When you entered my head for the first time, I mean. You took something away and made something else grow instead." He'd felt like a machine for so long—still did, mostly, but there wasn't anything lodged in his ribcage anymore. No clustered wires. No virus. "And I am thankful for that. But... you do realize that traumatic events can change people for the worse, also? Reality filling a person up until it becomes bloated? Beist is a traumatic event in itself."

"We'll find my friends and then we'll see."

The end of the discussion. But if Erik's words have planted doubt, then he's succeeded.

Finally, Charles tells him. "They were soldiers. We served together. Mi and J. Mi was a mutant with x-ray vision, and a physician-turned-human binoculars. J was a guy whose name no one could pronounce. He lost his arm after an accident here, and Mi stayed put to see that it healed. I visited them once. They were doing fine for handicapped scavengers. J spoke about opening a titty bar, hence the graphic design of his logo."

Little after little, the shadows reveal themselves to be kids. This place swarms with them. Mostly girls, aged 4 to 15. Quite a few of them dare ask, "Business?"

"With J, yes," Charles always answers.

Past a concert hall, there lies a two floor house with a spiral staircase in the front. The upper half is freshly painted. A gigantic chalk vagina is painted on the floor beneath. The thrash cans around the place are full of cigarette butts and used condoms. There is no mistaking who owns it.

J.

_'This is an age of friends with no last names,' _Erik thinks.

Charles knocks on the door. To his surprise, two children open it. They wear the same outfit, although one is a girl and the other a boy. "Business?" they tonelessly ask.

"I want to speak to J," Charles says.

The children grimace. They take each other's hands tightly and run back into the house. From within, there is a _clash!_ Then, yelling. Loud footsteps. The yelling begins again, incomprehensible until J storms out, "—fuck d'ya think you—"

He sees Charles.

J is not a pretty man. He has a long, flimsy beard and a face full of grease, spit and breakfast bits. His clothes are shabby. Is that a pair of frilly panties sticking out from his pocket?

"God," J gasps.

"Just Charles, please," Charles says in an attempt at humour.

"I thought you were dead. They said... a messenger... You were in a Factory..."

"_Was_. I got out with help from this man." Charles gestures to Erik. "His name is..." Erik Lehnsherr, pet killer of Shaw, also known as Magneto, "...Ian. A fellow mutant. This little girl is Dina. Unfortunately, her English isn't so good."

J is still struggling to close his mouth. Human language dies and rots on his tongue. Hopefully an insect will fly in and he'll choke on it and die. Finally, J does gesture at them to come in. "This... is a lot to take in. Haven't seen you in years, Charles. But please, come in and sit."

He leads them through a ruby red hall that smells funny with doors on each side (the apartments of J's employees?), until they enter a kitchen slash living room. The luxurious furniture contrasts the general lack of hygiene of the place. J sinks into a couch. Beside him, there is a jar of mayonnaise—or some other yellow substance—with raw sausages swimming in it. Charles sits down on the chair opposite, allowing Dina to sit too. Erik prefers to stand. _'This is probably a breeding ground for bacteria.'_ He pretends not to see the children in identical clothing.

"Are they yours?" Charles questions.

J raises an eyebrow. "Yeah." To diminish the awkward silence, he puts on a jagged LP titled Skip James. Blues roam the house with strange appropriateness.

Erik prefers classical music. Wholly instrumental pieces. Berlioz, Beethoven, and Sibelius when he's in a particular mood, sometimes ornamented with Mozart. Like many lonely men, Erik finds the most comfort in the abstract architecture of Bach. He thinks Charles prefers opera composers from the Romantic era, such as Verdi, with his reactionary and seamless style. Erik also believes some part of Charles also likes Wagner.

"Where's Mi?"

The mayonnaise glazed sausage pops as J bites it. "Hung herself." He is very casual about brutality. He has gone from shock to a sort of resigned indifference.

"What?!"

"She got ill. Neurological, I think? She wouldn't tell. Locked herself up in a room and when she came out, she was blind, face fucked up with drooped areas and burst blood vessels. The kids didn't want to go near her. But the Röngten vision remained. Mi left her room even less, and then one day..." he holds an imaginary hose above his head and grimaces. Then he takes another bite of sausage, chewing while speaking, "People die all the time 'round here. You can't stay in the past. You change or you die."

Charles' hands curl at his knees. Erik raises an eyebrow.

"Speaking of which, have you seen anything of what happened to BERG?"

Charles scowls. Erik quickly deduces that BERG is the organization Charles was part of. He researches his mental database. BERG had conquered a few areas, but rarely operated through combat, preferring infiltration. Erik does not care what the letters stand for, but he's curious of how it ended.

If it'd been Shaw, Erik had remained quiet. This is not Shaw.

"I don't know what happened," he says. "Please, tell me."

Charles holds up a hand. "Dina," he gently says, and in a Russian English mix—"will you play with the other kids, please?" Dina nods. With a gesture from J, a few other kids take her away.

"Boss' fault," J explains to Erik. "Rumours say he had syphilis in the third stage. The insane drive of his that'd built BERG became our _undergang_. He made all the new recruits march straight into no man's land to conquer a fortress, thinking that the raw spirit of young men and women would surely defeat tanks and bombs. ...The massacre of 50 000 people was finished in a little under an hour. We sorta drifted away from each after that. But you remained, didn't ya, Charles? You should have stayed. Sure, it's been tough, but we're doing alright." J gestures around himself. More children have appeared, watching from the shadows. "We _live_."

Charles sighs, but sits up a bit straighter. "Speaking of which, where are the women?"

"Women?" J frowns.

"Charles," Erik calls quietly.

"Your... employees. The prostitutes. Streetwalkers. Whores." It pains Charles to talk about it. He ignores Erik. "Unless you employ males? Wouldn't think that from your logo, but I don't know the market, so..."

J leans back. He gets a bottle of moonshine and pops the cap off with one thumb. "Charles," he finally says, "I don't employ adults."

It takes a while to sink in. But like all things, when you first realize them, evidence shows up everywhere.

("Business?" "Business?" Business?")

"You... employ... children."

"Ages six to fourteen. Mostly. I'm not completely deranged, like the ones in West Beast with their snuff films and... newborn porn. Christ. Didn't know that was a thing until half a year ago."

Erik sits motionless. Charles has barely scratched the surface of the world's underworld. Erik has bathed in filth. Even after Charles... _fixed_ him, it doesn't surprise him, although perhaps it disgusts him a bit more. Charles _irks_ him though. There is a line between ignorance and innocence. Erik thinks of Charles as a headmaster (from what he knows of headmasters from popular fiction), only handling the worst individuals in the aftermath of the bad things teachers and classmates having witnessed it firsthand. He understands the need of having a person with no relationship with the case, meaning they can be rational—but every situation is different and needs to be dealt with so. Charles is idealistic and hopeful. Erik is realistic and pessimistic, to the point of nihilism.

"You're a monster," Charles finally shouts. He's standing up now. "You take the weakest in the society and you force them to do this?! You're destroying them! The psychological damage is disastrous! Most of them will never recover! You're using them for your own personal gain! Where's your humanity? I thought you were my friend..." His voice quiets, and he's shaking all over.

J sits there, taking it all.

"Say something!"

When J finally speaks, his voice is tired. "The reason Mi killed herself was 'cos she saw right through the walls. Saw the kiddies and the men—and sometimes women—on top of 'em, going at it. One day she just snapped. Screamed and shrieked, scaring both kids and customers. She wouldn't stop screaming. _Monster_, she called me, kicking and biting. _Monster_, again and again. She was so loud. And she wouldn't stop screaming..." J swallows thickly, and then the old absentness is back. "I told her the truth. Held her mouth shut, and I said that if I'm a fucking monster, what's she who uses kiddie prostitution cash to buy drugs? She finally stopped screaming. Breathing, too, late that night. Found her dead the next morning."

There is nothing but revulsion in Charles' expression.

No understanding.

"Listen," J says, a tad more irritated. "I've heard your speech before. But it changes nothing. You want to say it's vile? Disgusting? Awful? Fine. It _is_. But don't come here and call me a monster. Where would these kids go, huh? You can't enlist in any organization until you're fourteen. The mobs don't want no kids, nor do the real whorehouses. But adults are dying like flies and since people are idiots, they screw as much as they can before vanishing of the face of the Earth. When I first came here the place was full of dead kids, rotting in the sun. You ain't never smelled as bad a smell, I swear. The parents would just let 'em loose here, like animals. Rapists came and went, selecting the ones they wanted, like on a silver platter. I organized the kids. Made sure they were paid. Made sure they knew the tricks so they didn't bleed to death. 'Cos let me tell you, me and Mi had to do some shit your pretty boy ass would've _ripped_ from to earn money. Now, the nasty pigs ruling the farms outside Beast come in here and party, and we get free supplies. No one dies."

His voice is wobbly. He's drunk too much.

_'We're in dangerous waters,'_ Erik thought. This isn't interesting anymore. This is just sad. "Charles," he says again, and this time he grabs his shoulder.

Charles reacts at once. "Don't. Don't touch me." He's still remotely sane. He turns to J again, voice dark. "The fate you assign them to is worse than death."

"So go ahead then, Xavier, kill 'em. Kill me." And then he's thrown a gun over to Charles. "C'mon. C'mon! You're always up on your high horse, talking about peacemaking and shit. Well sometimes there's no way out. Sometimes you just gotta survive and kill the person who's trying to kill you. But you never understood that—right up until the last second, when you just twisted their brains and pretended your hands were clean."

"Don't try to tell me you're doing it from them. This is expensive furniture, yes? And booze isn't cheap, either, particularly the fancy sort you've got there."

J grits his teeth, but the fire is going out of him.

"You're not even denying it."

"Fine then! What do you want me to say? That I sell kids for money? That I use said money to buy things that makes me forget? That I use them? Yes, I fucking do! I fucking sell them, and I'm perfectly aware what it entails!"

The confession is enough. Charles can't take it anymore. "I'm gonna be sick." He stumbles out.

Then he realizes: the funny smell in the hall is sex. The children are everywhere. But first now they truly _register_ in his mind, becoming more than faceless statistics. Everywhere he looks are children with their big, curious, _dead_ eyes. Oh god, he needs to vomit. He can't go near the thrash because of the things they holds. So he does it in a back garden. He pukes till his lungs are about to burst. He hopes the filth—which he feels has corroded into his flesh—leaves through his mouth. But it's hard to scrape out something that's already under his skin. It takes him a moment to realize, but Erik's standing beside him. Dina is also near, accompanied by a few children.

"We need to get out of here. I can't... I can't... The memories... The smell..."

"Is your power returning?" Erik asks.

But Charles isn't listening. "Dina," he whispers, "Dina please come here." The little girl looks uncertain, but she does step forward, arms reached out so he can lift her up. "Thank you, Dina. Thank god." Then he starts to sprint. Erik keeps up, and he sees Charles' mouth moves. Curious, he listens harder.

"...one... if I can just save one..."

_'Ah. How cliché—and very human.'_

Charles finally slows down. He's shaking.

"I know a place," Erik says. "Abandoned building. No one around. Let's go."

.

.

Back in the house, J puts the volume higher and the vinyl crackles and jars with the force.

He stands still for one minute.

And then something peculiar happens:

J walks from one side to the room, then to the next. He does this a couple of times, until he starts shedding his clothes, one by one. It is done with no haste. Each movement is leisure, and he folds the rags into a neat little pile. The kids that emerge watch him silently. J continues undressing until he's naked. His body holds scars, and there is an infected burn on his left shoulder. He starts to walk around again, back and forth, and then he ends the pattern by walking towards the window. The children bellow pause their games, chubby fingers pointed at J to alert their friends. He gazes at them for another moment.

Then he takes one last circle, heads straight for the window and jumps out, breaking his neck in an efficient, quiet suicide. One more body, rotting in the sun.

Add him to the people Beist has eaten from inside.

.

.

The apartment is nice.

Nice_r_.

Dina is sleeping in a separate bedroom in a bed which consists of a sun lounger stacked with pillows. Charles had held her hand until she slept. There is a hole from a bomb hole in the kitchen area, allowing quite the (un)pleasant view. Other than that, Erik and Charles share a living room. They're on the fifth floor. The building is crooked, but stable. Shaw's vouchers used scanners to make sure of Erik's safety as he stayed here once.

"You should eat something," he says.

Charles has not left his corner. "If I eat, it'll just come up." Yes, he had vomited some more after they arrived here last night. Their toilet—slash hole in a walk in closet—stunk of it.

"It'll get better."

"You think I'll forget that?"

"Not forget. But the mind fixes itself. The things it can't handle it wraps into cotton."

"I don't want to be wrapped in cotton."

Charles is, literally, wrapped in several layers of clothes. He complains about cold. Probably the sickness from the time spent in the snow. The body sometimes puts off sickness until one is relaxed, or rather, ready to deal with sickness. Erik can't hold his tongue, "Judging by your reaction this morning, I disagree."

A pause.

"Are you really so emotionless that you think what J is doing is fine?"

The building rattles with telepathy.

Erik's own powers active in response, metal objects forming and deforming. "I'm not emotionless. It just wasn't the first time I experienced something like this. But of course you wouldn't know that kind of cruelty, having been locked away in a nice place for so long."

"Don't you dare use my past against me." Charles has started shaking again. "You don't know what happened."

"I'm not. I'm merely stating facts."

Erik braces himself for attack. In lieu of a mental invasion, this is an intrusion of another kind.

Lips on his own.

There is the sharp exhale through his nose, and then floating metal rattles and cracks when all the items hit the ground.

Charles' hands are tangled in the fabric of Erik's shirt. The callused fingers are whitening, holding on tight as if he'd let go, Erik would disappear like steam rising from a pipe.

(_'A factory pipe,' _Erik thinks. 'That's were they all end up. Dead Jews and dead mutants. _Little pieces of me as well. So much death.'_)

But at the moment, life. Charles is alive and raw against him, projecting a hell hymn of _wantwantwant _into Erik's head. He brims with other emotions too. Charles breathes with rage pain fear; fundamental emotions that are so, so hard to imprison. His grip tightens. Erik takes this as an invitation to twist their position around, and suddenly Charles is the one pressed up against the wall.

"That," Erik murmurs, "was not particularly wise."

Oh, how those red rimmed baby blues widen. Charles scowls like a child. He is a child. So goddamned idealistic. But he is not infantile—Erik has seen him kill dozens of men in a heartbeat. There is childishness to that, too. He's not used to it. Just like Erik. But unlike Erik, he'd never been forced to be trained in murder.

"You're right," Charles says. Erik's grip loosens. "I wasn't. I'm sorry. I'm not thinking straight, I'm a little agitated. I thought... they were my friends... I thought... wrongly. Nothing is permanent. Everything ends. _Everything_."

It should feel like a victory, but it doesn't.

"Not everything," Erik says. He holds out a hand. Charles grabs it after reconsidering.

"What is our goal, Erik? I've forgotten."

"Survival."

.

.

The next day, a hoard of children stands outside the door. The message they bring is not a nice one.

"J killed himself 'cos of you. We need a new pimp."

It is very straightforward, and very, very unnerving.

Charles reluctantly agrees to walk them back to find J with a broken neck outside his headquarters. Charles help them bury him. Some of the older kids have said they've regulated business themselves for tonight (this makes Charles ill), but are unsure how long they can keep up appearances. They say other people will come in. Like the old days. The old, bad days.

Erik doesn't think it's their problem. Charles desperately tries to find an answer where there is none.

And then, in the crowd—

A red tail, swishing back and forth. A sign. A warning.

It reminds him of a quote from Dante's The Divine Comedy_; "The devil is not as black as he is painted."_ Is Azazel watching out for him? Or is it to install as much horror as possible? Nevertheless, it may save them.

Erik grabs Charles by the arm. He's already headed for the train tracks. "We have to go."

Everything's rushed—_too_ rushed. He can't think, can't speak...

(But that is how things happen, often. How war happens. A lot of problems are left unsolved.)

"What? Why?"

"Shaw. My old boss. He's here." Quick, fragmented sentences. It's all he can manage. Charles isn't listening. He's thinking about saving everybody again.

"We can't leave. What about the kids, what about D—"

It doesn't matter that they kissed yesterday.

Erik still slams Charles' head against a nearby wall.

.

.

When Charles wakes up, it's because of the Train starting to move. Erik is standing beside the door, lips in a thin line. He's blocking it.

"Where's Dina?" Charles demands.

Erik doesn't answer.

"You left her. You motherfucker... You just... just like that... We haven't done anything, we haven't saved anybody, we _haven't_—"

"This isn't fiction, Charles. Welcome to the real world."

"Let me out or I'll kill you."

"You won't."

Charles hisses and takes control. RAGE. It is spelled out in red hot letters in Erik's mind, twisting and curling, somehow managing to open the steel door behind him. Charles tries to force himself out, but all he's stopped by Erik's body, using himself to shield Charles from falling out. He sees Beist slowly becoming further and further away.

The last thing he sees is a view more horrifying than any other:

Shaw. Holding Dina.

Or more specifically, Shaw holding her severed arm, which he does a little wave with.

And then the door finally slams shut, and the unstoppable train travels away. Charles throws himself back, slams his head against the wall, and screams.


End file.
